


human remains

by Sonny



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Comment Fic, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-03
Updated: 2011-04-03
Packaged: 2017-10-17 15:14:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sonny/pseuds/Sonny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>sam/dean or gen : the first time dean listens to his brother's heartbeat again after Sam got his soul back - from lady_eilthana on LJ</p>
            </blockquote>





	human remains

**Author's Note:**

> For the **Like A Virgin - Feels like the first time : a sam/dean_otp comment fic and art meme**...

  


  
  
**human remains**   
  


Dean can't explain why Sam's starts to have nightmares in his sleep. He seemed fine for months after being re-souled and then— _whammo!_ —Sam hasn't had a decent night's rest. Dean's insomnia has washed over, causing him to pull all nighters. He tries to read the in-room Bible to brush up on scripture but he keeps reading the same passages over and over but finding deeper and more profound content he's never seen before.

The motel room is sparse of other material to read, so he digs out Dad's journal and Sam's laptop. He should be tempted to surf for porn but these last few months with non-souled and re-souled Sam, he's on an edge he can't afford to lose focus on. He's not losing Sammy again... _ever_.

It's been... _weird_ between them. They're like familiar strangers. Dean admits it's been partly his fault; he's beyond frustrated. It's no longer about the fear of Sam disappearing... now it's the guilt riding Sam's back, where he needs to repent for all the wrongs he did for the year he wasn't “there”.

Dean can tell him to “forget it”, to “let it go” and to “move on”, but there's intricacies happening inside of Sam, scratching at his wall to spotlight a truth he's unsure he wants to face. It's not Sam's truth— _because it was NOT him_ —but it's his consequences to suffer and then his guilt to feel. Uhm, yeah... this isn't pleasant for Dean to witness as he wonders if it was such a good idea to bring Sam's soul back without considering situations like this. Now there are all these “feelings” and “emotions” to mull and mope over... and then Dean's reminded of Sam was “that” Winchester. The one who bleeds for the whole world... _christ_...

Sam naturally tries to always touch Dean and Dean flinches; he can't help it. It's odd to feel intense heat where there was once cool warmth. It's tougher to feel the squeeze of a hand in fear, in affections, in worry... where there was once hard fists of punches and chilled stares of nothingness. In a short time together, Dean had gotten used to the new side to Sam. It was easier, because it went well dressed in Dean's anger and frustration.

Except now that Sam's back, he expects everything to fall into place. Dean had thought so too, but it was simpler to talk about the future than to actually be in it; to be in it and not know what to do or what to say. Dean freezes a lot and pulls away. Sam's not dumb or blind; he notices what Dean does. It's why Sam keeps most things to himself these days.

Dean flips through Dad's journal and he jumps a little when a piece of folded paper falls out. Loose items don't usually drop from the journal; either one of them is always updating the pages after a case. It's obvious this sheet is new and probably something Sam thought he could hide, since Dean leaves most of the research to Sam. It's a newspaper clipping, fairly older than eighteen months. It tells of a brutal murder/suicide. Dean's perplexed because he isn't sure what this has to do with any of their past cases and why it's in the journal. But it's Sam's own chicken-scratch writing that gives Dean clues that he will find what he needs on the laptop.

Sam still thinks Dean's computer illiterate, but Dean took it upon himself to train, online, while living with Lisa and Ben. In fact, Ben was a lot like Sam when it came to being a cyber whiz kid. Dean knows how to search for files on the hard drive with only a filename; Sam's “file under” clue leads him even further in the process. He finds the file folder icon marked with a weird skull-n-crossbones symbol, then clicks the mouse on it. As the window opens, Dean believes he's stumbled on something that might be why Sam can't sleep peacefully at night any longer.

Each sub-folder has a name—a last name. Dean takes the last name from the newspaper article and he locates its sub-folder. He's led to documents and pictures telling him that he's been more unaware of what Sam does in his spare time than he's typically been; it's frightening what Sam has done, like he's a super spy or something. _How did Dean_ ** _not_** _see any of this?_

These people are all dead; they can't be saved. But it seems as if Sam has tracked down the sole surviving member of the family to— _what?_ Dean's unclear what Sam's motives are. Obviously, eighteen months ago Sam was with Dean, working on a case; he was no where near any of these tragedies... and then Dean sees exactly what may have motivated Sam to investigate these random cold cases.

It's Samuel. Mary Campbell's father and Sam and Dean's grandfather. He's in one of the pictures taken at the crime scene and he's looking rather sinister and suspicious. What confuses Dean more is... why Sam thinks he has to beg forgiveness for a man who gutted him of any goodness once he had no soul, treated less like a precious grandson and more like a ferocious killer attack dog.

The bed creaks with Sam's fits in slumber. Dean looks up from what he sees on the monitor. There's a soft moan with muttered words and then... _quiet_... a stilted breath, then a soft snore...

Dean shuts the laptop closed, along with Dad's journal and he walks over to the empty dinette chair and drags it with him. He would usually be fast asleep now, lost in his own gray macabre dream. Now he's wide awake and he's going to watch Sam sleep. Just like he did right after they lost Mom... well, kind of...

John hadn't slept those nights. He had paced the floor when the cops questioned him, then he just never stopped. It was up to Dean to watch after his baby brother, Sammy. At six-months old, Dean had an unflappable fear of losing Sam next the most. He tried not to pay attention to the adults around him, but he heard loud and clear... _Mary Winchester hadn't died by accident_. Someone... _something_ had come for Sammy and would still come for him, if they weren't careful. For weeks, Dean slept with baby Sammy cradled to his four-year-old frame, protective arm surrounding under soft wisps of brown hair and secure across that pudgy tummy. He would fall asleep with his face squished to the fidgety head, shushing Sammy to slumber, but then wake up with his head buried on that puny chest, listening to that strong, steady heartbeat. Sometimes Sammy would be alert and awake before him, his tiny hands tangling and playing with Dean's dirty-blond locks—pulling and yanking until the one day he actually knew what to do with his fingers.

Dean loved it; he craved it. There wasn't one night, for all the years of Sammy growing into his maturing child's body, that Dean didn't take one second at bedtime and then another in the waking morning hours to attempt to sneak a listen to that heart. And Sammy thought it a playful game to entice him to smile because Dean would always tickle him or make him try to laugh somehow. Dean had underhanded sneaky ways in which to hide his sentimental ways.

Dean sniffs a snicker through his nostrils, looking over at this giant of a man; it's comical how Sam can barely fit into cheap motel room beds. He has to curl and conform to not fall off the mattress. He was doing that now, splayed from the center of the bed and asleep on his left side. His left arm is stretched out like he's reaching to touch and his right arm is bent at the elbow, hand stuffed under his pillow. Sam's facial movements cause him to frown deeply, then he shakes his head and turns his face into the plushness of his pillowcase. The limbs jerk and fingers curl to uncurl; there's a deeper moan—longer, too—and then a soft mewl, like a mumbled sob.

All right, Dean's had enough of this. He brings the chair back to the table and he quickly sheds his clothes until he's in boxers and a t-shirt. He throws the dirty clothing in a heap on his bed and turns to lift the pile of blankets to crawl in beside Sam. He slows down each movement as he settles onto his back. He picks up Sam's arm with a delicate lift and sets it against his body. The arm lays on him, fingers curled upward, so Dean starts to shape his left hand with Sam's palm and massages the skin. He knows Sam reacts best to touch... caressing, but he's not sure how deeply Sam is into his nightmare to bring him out safely.

Dean inches closer, then rolls onto his right side, facing Sam directly. This feels... eerily familiar, except a chasm of difference in feeling and emotions. There was no doubt Dean loved Sammy enough to protect him back then, but now... after that faithful love was tested, could he say he still loved Sam... unconditionally?

With the bond of their hands, he lifts their connection to look at the top of Sam's hand—how engulfing the palm is and how long those fingers are. Dean's hand practically disappears. Taking a risk, he brings that bare skin to his lips and he presses against his face. Closing his eyes at the heat and softness, he turns his head to kiss lips on flesh. There's a fresh soap scent from a shower and a salty taste; Dean can't seem to stop there. He wants—needs—that whole arm.

Mouth trails down the forearm, nose dips into the bend of elbow and then lips continue up the biceps that start flexing. Dean doesn't care if Sam wakes up; he's on a roll and doesn't feel like putting on the brakes. He has to pull down the hems of the blankets to reach the shoulder with his kiss trail, then he sees the tattoo on the right breast—the same one Dean has—caressing it as if pushing a re-set button. Now Dean's butting brow to jaw and he feels warmth radiating which makes him want to nuzzle. He wants—needs—that niche of shoulder and side of neck.

He doesn't notice the dark lashes lifting over dazed hazel eyes or the arm he just finished kissing securing around him, fingers tenderly tracing over his t-shirt and back. He doesn't even realize Sam adjusted his head to give him better access. Dean perches on the shoulder, then he trails his lips along skin to end over the carotid artery.

It pumps blood, fast and strong to that heart he knows so well.

Dean's right hand goes from laying over the tattoo to sending the backs of his fingers over the main artery. Sam takes a slow swallow, shutting his eyes; he's unsure if this is a dream or reality, so he won't say or do anything to alter it as the moment plays out. The sensation of Dean near him feels too good to disturb.

Dean traces his fingers down to follow the blood flow directly over the right breast, exactly where the heart beats and the lungs inhale and exhale air. A chasm of difference—two decades of maleness and maturity that tell the story of the man that six-month-old Sammy has become.

Dean cups the heart first, then he sinks down to set his cheek firmly on the muscular bump of the right breast. He closes his eyes and even stops breathing for a second or two to find the rhythm... then he's caught it—strong and steady with a bit of a frantic race in between because adult Sam is waking and very aware of his older brother cuddling to his body.

Neither speaks, neither opens their eyes. Neither even breathes as Sam's arm grows tighter and draws Dean flush with his left side. There's a deep sigh and a hitched breath and then... a dry sob... so guttural and aching that Sam thinks it came from himself... It's Dean. It's the first time he's let go and been close to himself with Sam. Or at least cracked the door open to let Sam in.

And just like he used to do when Dean listened to his heart when he was younger, Sam played with the dirty-blond strands. They were shorter now, close to the scalp, so Sam sifted through the spikes and lightly massaged the head, moving down the slope of the nape. He was still half-asleep so the fingers of that hand dipped under the t-shirt collar and soothed over warm bare skin.

Dean shivered inward as he lifted his head, a little bit ashamed, and guilty, for the distance he'd forged for far too long. As he glanced down at Sam's face, head averted and lids shut, Dean realized he had cruelly shoved Sam away when he should've been embracing him quicker. How did he think Sam would heal if he was left all lone in his own torture? Sam's own ability to lower his guard to support Dean in his time of need was limitless, yet Dean hadn't found an ounce of remorse in what he'd done to Same, then keeping that same distance adding to the misery.

Dean opens his mouth to say “I'm sorry”, but it clogs his throat and all that comes out is a release of air. He closes his lips, but this causes Sam to turn his head, looking directly up at Dean. It's stunning how subtle differences make Sam more beautiful to him than ever. There's a “twinkle” in those hazel eyes letting Dean know “Sammy” is still inside, buried deep, but it's Sam who's craving the attention, the love and affection once given easily to his younger self.

Dean wants to give it, but, again... it's Sam. A newer changed Sam, familiar yet strange. He's not sure a few words strung together in a half-assed apology are going to be the salve needed. A dark eyebrow raises in curiosity to know what Dean's next move is. The attempt is made, again, to speak, but nothing comes out and Dean is annoyed with himself.

Sam brings up his left hand, tenderly touching the lips that closed with the back of an index finger. The feel of them is soft, they look pliable and plump... and he rises to his elbows, finding himself eye to eye with wide green eyes. They're close; body proximity is closer than ever. They can both feel the other's radiating heat. It's an interesting thing about eye contact, because sometimes it can say exactly what words fail to do.

Leaning in as Dean leans down, at first it's a platonic kiss; one solid pucker of their mouths meeting and then they'll pull away because it'll feel... weird or wrong. But the angles of their heads tell of something both wanting that was deeper and long-lasting. Lips on lips, they kiss and while one drifts back, the other leans more inward, seeking an intense connection. So much that he cups the side of his brother's face, watching the cheek turn into the palm and then... it's become a trap, though it was known all along he couldn't go far. The hand turns the face to seek lips a second time and then they fall back onto the bed.

Dean's not certain where he found this need hiding, but as it pours out of him he feels his own heart racing, the rest of his body reacting accordingly. Poor Sam... asleep in a nightmare world to wake up to his older brother being all hands and no words. Though, Sam doesn't seem to mind this choice to stay awake in the darkness; there's a half grin on his drowsy face and he looks like he's close to shedding a tear, maybe two. Dean decides he'll be the one who pulls back this time, respecting Sam enough to not take him down another disturbing road that shifts and changes their relationship yet again.

He kisses Sam's brow, then the tip of his nose and leaves a light press of his lips on the open mouth before he chooses to crawl out of Sam's bed. But Sam grabs for his hand, tugging him back. He's not sorry they kissed; he doesn't want Dean's paltry apology for a kiss that was both of their doing. Sam's on his back, pulling Dean to fit back in that niche beside his body, letting him choose whether he wants to lay his head on the pillow or Sam's shoulder.

Dean's got his Sammy back and he's reacting the only way he knows how—ear to heart and arm holding tight, never letting go.

Sam hopes never while Dean silently prays a “forever”... and there is no longer any doubt that love hasn't left permanently, just lain dormant in wait...

 **~*~the end**


End file.
